


Finding my Fault Line

by call_for_help



Series: the bottles never break, the sun will never come [2]
Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Canonical Character Death, Episode: s05e07 From This Day Forward, Episode: s05e08 Stand Your Ground, F/M, Feelings Realization, Introspection, Major Character Injury, Symbolism, Walt Longmire Roast Club
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29106933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/call_for_help/pseuds/call_for_help
Summary: A retelling of some of the events in From this Day Forward and Stand Your Ground had Cady taken a half second longer to pull the trigger on JP.
Relationships: Cady Longmire/Jacob Nighthorse
Series: the bottles never break, the sun will never come [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2060565
Comments: 16
Kudos: 18





	1. To Know

_bullet like a thorn_

_dripping blood past rose petals_

_finding my fault line_

* * *

“That was your vow, Asha! Til death do us part! Now I guess you gotta die.”

“No—”

A bullet cuts through his side and he staggers back into the main room, a look of shocked disgust on his face. Cady stands and plants her feet as best she can, mind in a frenzy, still not believing she is the one doing these things and being forced to make these decisions, but the gun in her face demands action, for her own sake as well as Asha’s. One cartridge remains; she aims at center of mass, seeing how little a lesser wound did to dissuade him from his mission.

“This is all your fault bitch!”

In perfect time with Asha’s scream, her finger pulls back the trigger not a moment too soon but very nearly too late. The recoil pierces her shoulder like an ax but, wasn’t she holding the gun at her waist, forgetting everything she’d ever learned in her panic? A heavy thud makes its way to her ringing ears as JP hits the floor, blood quickly coloring his tank top from the center moving outward.

She turns toward Asha, who is still cowering, and her shoulder stings at the movement. A quick glance at it tells her more than she cares to know and somehow the knowing is followed immediately by the pain itself, never mind how it makes her stomach churn. The rifle slips through her fingers and clatters to the floor as she stumbles back, more from the shock than anything else. She brings a hand to her shoulder and sinks down against the cabinets as panic sets in. JP cut the phone line. Where is her cell phone? 

Asha is moving on the edge of her tunneled vision, approaching, then freezing, then rushing into the other room. She lets out a raw scream, and shrieks his name, but everything is still coming in muffled. 

Suddenly Asha is all she can see as she grabs Cady’s jacket and starts shaking her, her entreaties simultaneously loud and far away. “ _He’s dead! You killed him!_ ”

Her head makes repeated contact with the cabinet behind her before she can raise an arm to try to stop the attack. “Asha. You have to call the _police_ ,” she pleads, heart beating faster than it should be.

Mention of the police instantly quells Asha’s assault more effectively than Cady’s weakened grip on her wrist. She looks away from Cady, hands still clutching her jacket. “I can’t do that.”

“I know the line’s been cut but you can go find my cell phone, there’s a chance—”

“No. I have to go.” She stands and walks back toward JP.

“Asha!” She bends down momentarily, then runs out the front door. And Cady is alone.

She brings her hand back to her shoulder and winces at the pressure. For the first time she notices a stream of liquid running down her back and knows she won’t be able to stop the bleeding on her own. 

Standing sends a deeper thumping through her head and blurs her vision for a few seconds. By the time she makes it to her office she’s breathing hard and slightly nauseous. The search for her phone is made more difficult by a flurry of cases that day scattering papers all over her desk. Bloody fingers struggle to grasp it and she returns to the floor, grateful to find the Tribal Police number in her recent calls. But her phone just beeps at her, a repeating chorus of dismay as she keeps touching the number she needs to reach. 

The only other sounds are the blood pounding through her head and her rapid breathing, growing shallower with every breath. Knowing immobility could well be deadly she raises herself to her knees but doesn’t make it farther than that. Instinct fights through ever increasing anxiety and she lays down flat on the floor, trying to slow her breathing and weakening pulse, her arm starting to cramp from trying to keep pressure on her shoulder. She holds out for a few more minutes before her vision fades to black.

* * *

The river’s running high after the storm that afternoon. Jacob follows it west on the highway that cuts through the Rez, the road forming a neat division between the dry, grassy ridge to his right, strung with power lines, and the Powder River to his left, the far side lined with short, shrubby greenery. A few clouds are around from the storm, cloaking the sky in burnt orange. It’s that awkward time of day when he can’t decide if he should wear sunglasses or turn on the headlights. 

He passes by two bridges on his way to pay Cady a visit at the legal aide before turning on to the third. The shadows of the trusses fly over the car as he drives over the short bridge, the river boiling beneath him.

Jacob takes a hand off the steering wheel to turn up the radio slightly once he crosses over to the gravel road. _Finally_ , _a good fucking song_. He switches hands on the wheel and starts tapping the rhythm out on the window side armrest. 

In no time, he’s pulling up in front of the legal aide building. There’s another car outside as well. _She’s with a client_ , he reasons as he allows himself to just sit for a few more moments while the rest of the song plays out. He lets himself enjoy it, the thought of just one meeting not likely to raise his blood pressure taking some of the tension from his shoulders. 

The song ends and he pulls the key, dropping it in his pocket as he strolls toward the door. He pauses when he spots a broken window. _Just what we need_ , he thinks. _People putting their complaints into action_. But… the broken glass is out here. Cady wouldn’t let it sit for long.

A few more steps and he sees the broken glass in the door, not outside. A chill runs down his spine and he pulls out the gun he now carries just about everywhere. Names race through his head as he steps cautiously toward the door. If one of them decided to pull in Cady as a pawn in their dangerous games, well, he’d see how they like it when he stops playing by the rules. 

Opening the door the scene hits him all at once and he automatically starts prioritizing. With gun drawn he advances through the room, forcing himself to momentarily ignore the way his stomach lurches at the sight of Cady on the ground. He kicks the gun further away from the fallen white man on his way to check the kitchen. 

_The rifle. The rose amidst the thorns. If she hadn’t had it_ —

Satisfied that there are no remaining threats or victims, he wastes no time rushing to Cady in her office. The asshole on the floor looks pretty far gone at a glance, and if he wasn’t he certainly wouldn’t want the help Jacob would not hesitate to give.

He kneels by her side and some of the blood drains from his face. She’s far too pale and there’s too much blood surrounding her but none of that matters unless… he leans over, then closer still, until her lips touch his ear. Yes, she’s still breathing.

He rips off his suit jacket and starts folding it around her shoulder, wrapping under her arm, as tight as he can manage hastily. Repositioning himself behind her head he drags her into his lap, pinning her injured shoulder between the heel of his hand and his thigh. 

That accomplished, he takes out his phone, pessimistic about his chances, seeing hers bloody on the floor. He tries anyway, even tries the sheriff’s department, willing the universe to play some absurd, sadistic joke in letting that be the call that goes through. 

Nothing.

Seconds tick by as he assembles plan B. If the compression is working then he should really shouldn’t move her for at least a few more minutes to give her body a chance to seal up some of the damages. He checks the pulse on her other wrist. Her skin is so cold. A faint, rapid pulse against his fingertips reassures him of what he cannot tell just by looking at her. 

He allows himself exactly ten seconds to stare at her pale face, the ends of her messed up hair stained a darker shade of red with already drying blood. He knew something like this could happen, at least he tells himself he’d known. The reality of it is another matter entirely.

Her eyelids flutter and her wrist weakly struggles against his fingers. 

“Cady?” 

Eyes open and recognition registers in them. “Jacob.” Her voice is a whisper. He lets her wrist slip through his grasp and she reaches back, her hand ending up resting on the back of his neck. “Jacob,” she calls, more frantically now and shifts as if to get up but his hand on her shoulder holds her in place. Her eyes clench shut at the inadvertent reminder of her injury.

“You’re okay Cady,” he says for her sake as well as his own. The emotion in his voice surprises him and he swallows it back before speaking again. “You need to stay still.”

A distant siren breaks the silence and he lets out a sigh of relief. Maybe Cady had better luck with her phone call. He doesn’t dare move her now, not with actual help on the way, Mathias at least. His absurdly oversized SUV doesn’t seem quite so ridiculous now, if the extra space can make Cady’s journey just a fragment more comfortable.

Interminable seconds tick by before Mathias sprints in, pausing only a moment to stare at the man on the ground.

“What the hell took you so long?” Jacob yells at him.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember taking your call,” he replies as he rushes over, getting in position to help carry the barely conscious Cady.

Jacob’s mumbled reply about shitty cell service is lost in their coordinated efforts. They carry Cady to the SUV together and navigate her into a position where Jacob can keep the pressure on her shoulder. Mathias drives cautiously over the gravel but guns it once they get to the highway.

Cady’s eyes drift shut and flutter open with the jerks of the vehicle.

“Cady, look at me.”

He meets her blue eyes and for the first time recognizes the woman beneath his hands rather than the injury. The woman he’s been glancing at, almost to an unprofessional degree, the woman he’s been not-quite-flirting with, but certainly more genuinely friendly around than most of his employees, hell, most anybody he interacts with. Now is really not the time for heavy introspection though.

“It’s very important that you stay awake. Just look at me, and listen.” He speaks monotonously, telling her about his day, and her slowing breathing tells him it’s working. He talks about the drive over from the casino down to the song that was playing when he—

He flashes back to sitting in the car, just _waiting_ while she lay bleeding out on the floor. If she doesn't make it out of this it will become the soundtrack of his nightmares.

At one point he glances up and catches Mathias watching him in the rearview mirror. His brows are knitted in skepticism and his eyes shift back to the road when Jacob returns the most menacing glare he can muster.

He drops his voice and continues on, describing the sky over the river, like fire, flooding even the dull, murky water with radiant reflections. He whispers about the delightful haze, the dew that hung in the typically-dry air, infusing every breath with a rare perfume, the kind of intoxicating that must be savored for the entirety of its brief existence.

They jerk to a stop and he looks up, confused. Mathias’ door opens and the car is filled with chatter and the white light that pours out of the hospital. His door flies open next and directions are shouted as he dances with the nurses to get Cady onto the waiting stretcher. 

And then she’s gone and he’s left standing, noticing bloody hands and cuffs before looking up to find Mathias watching him, leaning against the car with crossed arms.

“Want me to take you home? She won’t be fit to interview for a while. You can clean up and come in tomorrow to make a statement.”

He says it casually, almost like it’s deliberate, a challenge. “I’ll wait,” Jacob replies and the slight judgmental lift of Mathias’ eyebrows does not escape him. “I’ll be inside,” he tells him, knowing Mathias will have to park the car before he can follow and interrogate him further. As much as he didn’t think about it while everything was happening, he really is quite anxious to wash Cady’s blood off his hands.


	2. I Wasn't Ready

“What happened, Cady?”

It’s Mathias who asks the question. Jacob sits on a rolling stool on her left with Mathias standing opposite him. She’s less pale now and the only blood visible is in the tube running into her arm. Jacob feels a pang of guilt, wondering how much less she would need if he hadn’t stopped to check-in with, or more accurately _check on_ , Malachi on his way out of the casino.

She looks at him, then back to Mathias. “Today’s… a bit of a blur.”

“That’s not unexpected. Dr. Weston said you have a mild concussion. But I’d like to write down whatever you can remember while it’s still fresh. Any investigation will likely be a formality but the feds will appreciate anything you can give us.”

She clears her throat and sort of clenches and unclenches her left hand and something in him wants to reach out and hold it.

“I first saw JP when I let this woman, Mandy, hide in the office. She’d taken something from his wife, Asha, and he was looking for her.”

He studies her as she talks and, judging by the decreased strain on her face, the pain medicine must have kicked in. She is so casual about describing the increasing severity of the situation. If he’d known what she was dealing with…

“And, uh, I asked… the sheriff… to come with me to deliver the restraining order.”

“This asshole came back after getting the stare down from Walt?” asks Mathias, apparently more confident in Walt’s ability to intimidate than Jacob is.

“He… um.”—she makes the quickest of glances at Jacob—“He thought it wasn’t within his jurisdiction, being on the Rez and all.”

He doesn’t buy that for a second. When had Walt ever let jurisdiction stop him from poking his nose in anything to do with the casino? No, he suspects the sheriff’s reasons for letting Cady fend for herself were more personal in nature. Now his fist is the one involuntarily clenching.

She eventually works her way to the events of that day and despite the evidence of her ultimate wellbeing sitting in front of him, hearing her recount them brings him right back to the suspense of holding her bleeding body, but with an additional white hot undercurrent of anger at the man who threatened her life so carelessly.

“We locked ourselves in the kitchen. Asha had the phone and I had the rifle. It took me a minute to get it loaded, it’s not like the ones I’ve used before.”

“Yeah, I saw it. It’s a Henry repeater, practically an antique.”

“I thought for a moment…” she trailed off, dropping her eyes to her arm in a sling.

“Maybe it wasn’t quite the gift you’d believed,” Jacob brings himself to say, her meaning obvious. His voice is emotionless despite the sudden tightness in his chest, the thought that she could believe he’d made a fool of her, offering a gesture of trust while literally failing to arm his “enemy,” it’s almost too much.

She looks at him, confusion clouding her brow. “No.” She turns back to Mathias who is also looking at him, his skepticism more plain than ever. “I couldn’t hardly think straight, when I couldn’t find the loading gate.” Finally the weight of the experience catches up to her through the haze of concussion and pain meds and a few tears make their way down her cheeks. “I thought ‘We’re gonna die here, with a gun and bullets and no way to put them together.’” 

She’s held up impressively well but this pushes her over the edge and tears start falling in earnest. He doesn’t know if he wants to make them stop or wipe them away more but he can’t do either. Not without knowing why he wants to.

She wipes her eyes and collects herself enough to continue. “But I figured it out,” she chokes out. “I shot him. He shot me. Asha ran. That’s all I remember.”

Mathias nods and finishes up taking notes. “I’m sure we can piece together the rest once we find Asha.” Stowing his notebook in his shirt pocket he adds, with a significant glance at Jacob, “We should get out of here, let you get some rest. I’ll try to give you a heads up if the feds want an interview for themselves.”

She returns a small smile. Mathias starts for the door and Jacob reluctantly rises as well. He turns to go, a clean escape, but she doesn’t allow it.

“Jacob.” He stops and turns back, hoping Mathias keeps going. “Thank you.” The choked back emotion in her voice and her wide, concerned eyes convince him that she only sees his role in helping her out of that terrible situation, not putting her into it. He imagines something must show on his face but really he can’t be sure because all he can think about is actually taking her hand and actually wiping her tears and, yes, actually holding her in his arms until all the pain goes away. He swallows it all down and manages a nod, more eager to leave the room than ever.

Just outside the door he slumps against the wall and waves Mathias off when he asks about a ride. He can’t go home, not just yet, even if he had to get out of that room. More than that, Walt should be showing up soon and he doesn’t mind staying to take his fair share of the sheriff’s rage, for Cady’s sake, assuming it comes in finite amounts. In the meantime, he closes his eyes, granting his barely restrained thoughts free rein for just a few minutes. 

When he was a child, from time to time his parents would give him the greatest thrill by asking him to go search for a broad, flat stone. This meant they were cooking outside that night, over an open fire. They had a grate that would have rendered the flame compatible with pots and pans but they must have seen the pure, uninhibited joy he experienced, watching his mother cook fresh trout on the rock, foil-wrapped sweet potatoes neatly tucked against the flames below. It was a few years later when he made the connection between these dinners and the nights the house got so cold his parents had him sleep between them, but at the time, it never failed to fill him with glee.

One of those times lives more vividly in his memory. He’d walked and wandered but didn’t find a suitable stone until he was close to the stream, ignoring his father’s instructions to keep away from water. Later that night, he sat, one second laughing at his mother making an improvised puppet show of the fish while the stone heated over the fire, the next second doubled over on the ground, clawing at his burning face. The rock had cracked in half, sending tiny hot shards flying. He was lucky they weren’t larger, and was happily relating the spectacle to his father a few minutes later, but after that time they made sure to turn the stone occasionally, the even heating keeping it intact.

Standing in the lonely hospital hallway, he finds his face burning again, and can’t help but believe the reason this time was the fracture he felt when he first saw Cady crumpled on the floor. It took time to propagate, a slow motion replay of the now distant memory, but it seems to have found something of a fault line.

Gradually his turbulent thoughts start to settle and their unpleasant intrusion gives way to a kernel of something, could it be hope? There are a few good reasons he knows he shouldn’t dare, and yet…

Somewhat calmer, he looks up and one of those good reasons is approaching, and the disappointment is evidently mutual, based on the expression on Walt’s face. Predictably, Jacob’s mere presence stops Walt dead at the door but he almost welcomes the distraction from his thoughts.

“Cady call you?” 

It’s less of an accusation than he was expecting but the way he says it makes it sound like he’s asking if Jacob was the one that shot her.

Jacob’s even less inclined than usual to offer him the full truth. At least not all at once. If he can fill Walt in piece by piece he might be able to protect Cady from the brunt of his rage without the argument getting physical. Walt is already searching for a reason to blow up. He offers the challenge he knows full well Walt will accept.

“She clearly didn’t call you.”

_Too easy_. “What the hell are you even doing here you smug jackass? If you’re so well informed why didn’t you pick up the phone? I shouldn’t have to find this shit out from Doc Weston asking about Cady’s blood type.”

Jacob is still resting calmly against the wall, hands in pockets, sleeves rolled up to hide the bloodstains. He replies nonchalantly, “And did you tell him? He didn’t seem to think you’d know.”

“Course I know. The hell kind of father do you think I am, not knowing my own daughter’s blood type?”

“A pretty shitty one considering you let Cady serve documents to that white bastard by herself. You know, the one that shot her?” Despite himself his temper is rising at the reminder of Walt’s role in the situation.

“You… She never would’ve had to do that if you hadn’t given her the job in the first place. Just admit it, you _hired_ her to get at _me_. This…”—he gestures vaguely, vein already popping out of his neck—“This couldn’t have gone better for you. Why I’d almost believe you paid that man to—”

The rest of his sentence is sent back down his throat by Jacob’s fist. Walt recovers quickly enough, wiping a trail of blood from his chin before sending his own fist towards Jacob’s jaw. He’s expecting it and catches him by the wrist before twisting his arm behind his back and shoves him face first into the wall.

With the same hand that kept pressure on Cady’s bleeding shoulder, he grips Walt’s wrist, hopefully to the point of pain, as he presses his shoulder into his back. 

Jacob’s voice drops to a steely growl. “If you think hiring her had _anything_ to do with you, you don’t give her a tenth of the respect she deserves.” Walt struggles against his weight but Jacob just leans in harder. “And if you think I could do _anything_ to hurt her, then you don’t know a goddamn thing about me.”

Jacob starts to ease up and feels Walt readying himself to continue their altercation so he gives him one last push into the wall and is a few steps away by the time Walt turns around, shaking with righteous indignation.

“You know I can arrest you for this.”

“Go ahead. Good luck explaining to Cady that you arrested the man who saved her life.” 

He anticipated needing to play this unbeatable card if, _when_ , things got out of hand. Walt wasn’t going to make the connection himself, not before talking to Cady. Most of her blood is invisible on his black pants, but in the scuffle his sleeves rolled back down and he catches Walt looking at them and finally understanding. 

Before he can say anything, Henry puts a hand on his shoulder, and Walt jumps. “Shall we go check on Cady?” Henry seems to have read the situation in a glance and is trying to push Walt towards more important things.

Walt is still mildly glaring at Jacob, and mumbles his agreement. As they pass through the door, Henry gives Jacob a look that he takes to mean “For all our sakes, you should really be gone when we come back out.”

It’s petty and he knows it but Jacob never did like taking suggestions from Henry Standing Bear. 

Not even ten minutes pass before the door is opened rather aggressively and upon seeing Jacob did in fact stick around, Walt’s expression sinks into the sternest glare Jacob has ever seen. “She wants to talk to you.”

Jacob holds back a biting comment and scoots past Walt, who is clearly trying to make some sort of statement by remaining in the doorway. The door slams behind him.

Cady is still pinching the bridge of her nose but her features soften when her eyes open again. Jacob resumes his place on the stool by her side.

“I take it Walt’s not too pleased,” he offers when she doesn’t say anything.

She stifles a sarcastic laugh and brushes misplaced strands of hair behind her ear. “Understatement. Henry’s not much better. They act like this was _my_ fault, _your_ fault…”

_God, she’s rambling_. He tries not to read too much into it but secretly revels for a moment in being her temporary preferred company to the two men no doubt still fuming in the hallway. He couldn’t interrupt her even if he wanted to, every word is precious and this worries him.

“…I know it’s a lot to ask, but, would you drive me home tomorrow? I don’t think I could stand any more of Dad blaming everyone but JP.”

Now _that_ is a surprise. It’s almost a bigger surprise that this request doesn’t set off any alarms in his head telling him to stay far away. Feelings or not, Cady needs a ride and she trusts _him_. 

“If that’s what you want. The doctor did say to avoid unnecessary stress.”

“Yeah… I—He’s just being… you know.”

“I do,” he says, showing her his bloody knuckles.

“Oh god. What did he say?” 

His mouth opens but he hesitates. Confirming just how much of a jackass Walt had been isn’t what gives him pause. It’s what _he_ said to Walt, essentially staking his identity on being incapable of knowingly causing Cady pain. Walt may not have understood what a raw nerve he touched, but Cady very well might read between the lines. 

“Actually, I don’t want to know. I’m sure it was worse than the shit he gave me and I might’ve punched him if I had an arm without a hole or a needle in it.”

She’s making a bit of a joke but he can’t laugh, not even a little, not even at Walt’s expense. He really—

“Are you alright, Jacob?”

“Just… glad you’re going to be okay.” He flashes her the ghost of a reassuring smile and stands once more to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

***

Back at home and thoroughly exhausted, Jacob can’t quite convince himself to wash the day off just yet. He pours a glass of bourbon to sip on the back porch as his thoughts run wild, asking himself a dozen questions at once, and settling in to answer all of them, before tomorrow.


End file.
